


Mistletoe

by Wrenlet



Category: The Ice Storm (1997)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-19
Updated: 2005-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrenlet/pseuds/Wrenlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Francis, I really don't think this is a good idea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/profile)[slodwick](http://slodwick.livejournal.com/)'s [Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook Challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/users/slodwick/525462.html), [mistletoe poisoning](https://68.media.tumblr.com/c9e135d334475540cf029e09d844467e/tumblr_op88zqIc0u1wog4jro4_250.jpg).
> 
> Cast (because this movie's kind of old and visuals are never a bad thing): [This is Paul Hood (Tobey Maguire)](https://68.media.tumblr.com/0dee8e21928e571b39e6746b9dbe48a8/tumblr_op88zqIc0u1wog4jro3_250.jpg). [This is Francis Davenport IV (David Krumholtz)](https://68.media.tumblr.com/32e51306f8fb2b6c4bd0a374e4af2928/tumblr_op88zqIc0u1wog4jro1_540.jpg). [Bonus pic of Francis and his bong](https://68.media.tumblr.com/8e4318634ff5d2c9af22e109504b2c99/tumblr_op88zqIc0u1wog4jro2_250.jpg).

"Francis, I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Relax, Master Hood, everything's under control." Francis packs the bottom of the bowl with practiced motions, then holds out his hand. "Here, pass me another one."

Paul shakes his head, and definitely doesn't tear another leaf off the sprig in his lap. "No, I mean... these are poisonous, aren't they? There's no telling what they'll do to you."

"Get me high, I hope." His grin is lopsided and lazy, and Paul knows if he leans in he'll see Francis' pupils are almost completely dilated.

"You're already _stoned_." So is Paul, to be honest, but Francis isn't even listening, he's already started filling in the rest of the bowl with weed. "I'm serious, one of my mom's friends had this little dog, and last year it got up on the table before dinner and ate half the centerpiece, and-" Okay, so Paul doesn't really want to describe dog vomit. "They had to call out to the vet and-" Paul can't say that he died, either. The words won't come. "Francis, don't."

Francis shoots him a brief look, eyes dark under his lashes, and packs the mixture down. "Mistletoe's a sacred herb, dates back to the druids or something, they'd smoke it to get visions. Or maybe they'd make a tea... I guess it could be in the berries? Whatever." He has the bong nestled between his thighs now, starts to strike a match, and Paul's sense of alarm just keeps growing. "Worth a shot."

"No, no it really isn't." Paul doesn't actually decide to stop him before he's there, on his knees next to Francis' bed with his hand around Francis' wrist, holding the flaming match away from the bowl. Francis just stops, staring at Paul with eyes that are, funny, a little less stoned and a lot more tired, more... something else, than Paul had thought. He has to look away first, and he blows the match out before it can singe Francis' fingers.

"Why don't I remember Thanksgiving?"

"... Thanksgiving?" So stupid, Paul knows exactly what Francis is talking about, and when he lets go of his wrist Francis drops the burnt match to join the fallen mistletoe on the floor and he catches Paul's hand. Paul can't imagine what he'll see if he looks at him, so he doesn't.

"Thanksgiving, Libbets' place. You gave me paregoric and I woke up the next morning with you gone and her snuggled up to my foot."

Libbets seems like a lifetime ago, the cavernous apartment, her mother's medicine cabinet. She called him Paulie, and Frankie, and nobody does that. Paul tries halfheartedly to take his hand back but Francis isn't letting go. "N-nothing happened. You fell asleep, and then... Libbets did, too. I caught the train home, the ice stalled us on the track for a while."

"That's a shame."

"What, the ice? No big deal."

"That nothing happened." Paul can feel him moving closer and he knows he _should_ look, but he doesn't and so it takes a moment to fully register.

Francis Davenport IV is kissing him. Well, kissing the corner of his mouth until Paul turns, and Francis catches his lips and it should be completely awkward with Francis leaning over so far and the bong in the way but somehow it isn't. Francis sets the bong on the floor without looking and without even sloshing the precious Amaretto in the base (just Amaretto, because Paul had finally admitted it was the brandy that made him cough so much) and pulls on his hand, tugging him up, and when his knees hit the edge of the bed Francis opens his mouth and Amaretto fumes and stale pot smoke are suddenly the best damn taste in the world.

Francis is stronger than he looks, and... and _better_ , it's one thing to know that Francis gets pretty much any girl he wants -- or that Paul wants -- and it's another thing entirely to find out what that's like, to be arranged on the bed and have his clothes open as easy as breathing, to feel all the ways in which he is unsure, and Francis is sure... makes _him_ sure. When Francis' hand closes around his dick it's a revelation.

Paul would shout if he had the breath for it, but he doesn't, and he thinks maybe he should have a hand down Francis' pants too but Francis' body is pressed so fully against his side, knees to chest, that the best he can do is push against the small of Francis' back, not quite on his ass, and shift a thigh up into his crotch. Francis makes a low sound into his mouth, still kissing him, grinds down hard and he's shaking in Paul's arms but his hand never falters, never slows. Paul is wound up and wrung out, light flaring behind eyelids he doesn't remember closing, and it's nothing at all like he'd imagined but now he's pretty sure it's what he always wanted.

Francis stops kissing him, buries his face against Paul's neck and shudders hard before going completely still, panting quietly. Paul's hands are moving up and down Francis' back, have been for a while and he doesn't think he wants to stop. Francis nips the skin just under Paul's jaw, lightly.

"Hey, ow."

Francis chuckles, bumps the spot with his nose. "That didn't hurt. I need to move, though, I'm a mess."

"Oh... oh, yeah." Now it's awkward. Paul lets go but he doesn't know what to do with hands that seem to want to keep touching, so he folds his arms across his chest and hopes he doesn't look as stupid as he feels. Francis shifts up onto his elbow and pauses, looks down at Paul with an expression so unreadable it makes him squirm. "What?"

"Still stoned?"

Paul bites his lower lip, and slowly moves his head side to side. "Not really."

"Okay." And Francis smiles -- just a little smile, not the grin -- and sits up, swinging his legs over the side. "Okay, yeah. Hang on."

Francis is bent at the waist and rummaging under the bed, and Paul thinks he shouldn't ask because this is good, it's good, he should let go but he can't. "Why do you always... why did you do that?"

"Do what?"

Paul swallows. "Thanksgiving. You knew I wanted Libbets."

Francis comes up with an undershirt, rests his elbows on his knees and sits quietly for a long minute, looking down at the shirt instead of at Paul. "It wasn't about her. Never has been."

"That... doesn't make any sense."

Francis laughs almost silently, close-mouthed. "It does if you think about it." He turns and offers the balled-up cloth to Paul. "It's for you. I've gotta go change."

Paul takes it and lays there watching as Francis collects a clean pair of pants and heads out to the bathroom. He mops up the drying spunk on his belly with Francis' shirt, and wonders what to say to him when he comes back.

He hopes he can make it good.


End file.
